


unbound

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas Isn't Canon, F/M, I Said Soulmates, Post-Titanic, Sequel, Smut Fic, Soft Turtles in Love, Soulmates, These Two are So in Love it's Insane, Titanic Definitely Happened, smut with feelings, yes you heard me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Ever since she and Flynn were open about their feelings for one another, ever since he kissed her and she kissed him back, many, many times, soft and warm and sweet, it’s been… it’s felt right.





	unbound

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [unspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100431) by [extasiswings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings). 



> This was a prompt fill on tumblr where a post-Titanic smut fic was requested. extasiswings had already written a lovely fic for that, though, so I made my prompt fill a sequel to hers. Now posted to Ao3 by request!

It’s been a week of happiness, which is something Lucy Preston honestly wasn’t sure she’d ever say again.

Ever since she and Flynn were open about their feelings for one another, ever since he kissed her and she kissed him back, many, many times, soft and warm and sweet, it’s been… it’s felt  _right_. She goes to sleep with his warmth at her back and wakes up feeling immediately safe in his arms. He brings her coffee, and they chat while waiting for the others to wake up. She reads history books cuddled up next to him on the couch, his arm around her, his fingers idly playing with the strands of her hair. He makes her dinner and refuses to let her help after the fiasco the last time she tried to help (Wyatt had asked if they were conducting a science experiment and Jiya had quipped that they’d finally cooked something even Rufus’s stomach couldn’t handle).

He kisses her, he kisses her, he kisses her, as many times as she wishes. All she has to do is tilt her face up and he gives one to her, soft and warm, and she plans on getting dozens of hundreds of thousands more before she’s through with him.

Despite all of her happiness though (and that’s not changing or going away), she would like to add the more adult aspect of the relationship to their dynamic.

She’s well aware that Flynn’s attracted to her. Some almost slips of the tongue that he’s had to cover, such as his description of her when her future self gave him the journal, and some lingering looks before he quickly averted his eyes, have told her as much. And she’ll be the last person to deny that she’s attracted to him. She was checking him out all the way back when they were with Benedict Arnold.

What, the man’s a tree and knows how to wear a suit. And she dares anyone to have seen his goddamn arms and shoulders in his prison wifebeater and not feel  _something_.

All right, maybe Denise didn’t feel something but Denise didn’t count. All male-attracted people would have felt something, Lucy is sure of it.

The point is she’s been attracted to Flynn since far earlier than she probably should’ve been given their contentious relationship where the particulars of morality were concerned, but now they’re on the same page with everything and she has felt every inch of him while she’s lying in his arms and he kisses her so thoroughly and oh, she wants, like fire, like she’s never wanted before in her life.

But Flynn doesn’t want to rush this. He doesn’t want to rush  _her_. That makes her heart do some dangerous flips, and she doesn’t want to rush things with him, not when he’s finally reminding her what it means to love without pain. So she’s trying to be patient.

It’s just very, very hard to do so when she walks into their bedroom ( _their_ bedroom!) and sees Flynn shirtless, jeans undone, standing in the middle of the room with her battered biography of Josephine Baker in his hand. He’s apparently gotten caught up in reading it and has stopped whatever else he was doing, which is enough to make her swoon just a tiny bit, but right now she can also see his, mmm, very toned stomach and chest, and his bare arms, and the trail of hair that leads down from his stomach, and his jeans are sitting rather dangerously low on his hips like they could just slide down at any moment…

She clears her throat. “Garcia?”

She calls him that when they’re alone now. She rarely says it in the journal, and certainly never when talking about him to others. It’s special.

He looks up at her, setting the book back down like a puppy caught chewing the shoes. “Lucy?”

She swallows. God, it’s been a long time since she—with anyone, and certainly not with someone she loved. And she does love him, so much her chest aches with it.

But he made the first move. She asked him to, and so he did, and now it’s her turn. Just like he did with her, she’ll give him every chance to turn away. But it’s her turn to be brave.

So she walks over to him, placing her hands lightly on his chest, and then slides them downward. She watches Flynn’s throat bob as he swallows, his lips parting, his eyes going black.

Her fingertips reach the waist of his jeans. She toys with the fabric, then gets on her tiptoes and kisses the center of his chest, then higher, and then at the base of his throat.

Flynn is still as a statue. If it weren’t for the warmth of his skin beneath her lips and his stomach brushing against her fingertips as he breathes in and out, she’d think he really was made of stone.

“You said you didn’t want to rush this,” she whispers. Her eyes flick up to his face and oh, he looks—she can’t even say exactly how he looks. It’s like devastation, almost, but in a good way. “And I respect that. But I wanted you to know that I want… that if  _you_  want… that this wouldn’t be rushing, for me.”

The next words come tumbling out of her in a rush because if she doesn’t say them quickly she’ll never say them at all. And she knows that they’re good at understanding the unspoken with one another but sometimes… sometimes she has to say things out loud.

“I want to feel a part of you and you a part of me and I want to feel like nothing will ever get in between because—because it feels like I’ve loved you forever even if I didn’t know it and I feel almost selfish with all the things I want to do with you.”

It’s more than she’s ever said to anyone about how she feels for them. Only Amy could be called an exception, because Amy was her baby sister and Lucy never withheld affection from her. And Flynn must know this, somehow, the way he seems to know everything about her that she doesn’t tell him, reading between the lines of her, because he wraps his arms around her and kisses her with a softness so infinite and unbreakable that she nearly bursts into tears.

His hands slide up her back, under her sweater (one of his that she stole, she’s acquiring quite a collection) and the kiss turns a little heated as his tongue darts out to tease the seam of her lips, as his teeth come into play for just a moment.

“ _Toliko vas želim_ ,” Flynn whispers. “More than I can say, Lucy—” He kisses the corner of her mouth, her cheek, his hands gently pressing so that she’s pushed up against him and can wind her fingers in his hair. “—if you’re sure—”

“Yes,” she promises him. In a world where everything has been changed and taken and twisted beyond recognition, he is her constant. She loves him impossibly, and he loves her, and somehow that is enough to stem the tide of impermanence and insanity that has become her life. “I love you, I want you,  _Garcia—_ ”

He gives a groan of sheer relief, his answering words to her lost as he presses his mouth to hers, but it’s all right. She knows what he said.

Flynn wraps his arms around her waist and hauls her up and she tightens her hold on him, her legs wrapping around his waist and oh, yes, he’s definitely on board for this—or at least certain parts of him are. She’s had the privilege of knowing just how much she does for Flynn before, when they’d wake up together or when they were kissing and she was on his lap, but he’d always gently disengaged and she’d respected that. Now, though—now all of that is going to be inside her and it makes her shiver in reckless anticipation.

Before she can get her hand properly down his pants, however (because she is a lady and a lady always provides a helping hand before the main proceedings no matter what gender one’s partner might be), Flynn lies her down on the bed and pulls away—pulls down, gets on his knees, makes short work of her pants.

 _Oh_.

Oh, God, she always knew Flynn was—and he has a bit of an oral fixation, and yes she’s seen the way his tongue darts out and wets his lips, the way his mouth curls around the letters of the various languages he knows, but–oh oh  _oh_  holy fucking God oh—

Flynn twists his tongue into her, sliding it up through her folds to her clit, laps at it, circles it, then slides back down again and repeats it all and she’s falling apart, her legs shaking, her hands tugging insistently on his hair. He’s not giving her enough attention to really get close to coming, just enough to tease her and force her body into a tighter coil of  _want_ , and it’s unbearably frustrating and unbearably wonderful all at once. When she’d dared to think about fucking Flynn back when he was the enemy and a guilty fantasy (switching positions on him and tying him to a chair in D.C. and fucking him thoroughly in it had been the star of certain showers for about a month), she’d thought of it as rough and fast, hard-edged, teeth, bruises, driven mad with desire.

She should’ve known that Flynn would be a downright tease instead.

Her panting and pleading and hair-tugging does little to sway him, despite her best efforts, and she feels like her spine has slowly been melted away with each swipe at her clit by the time he deigns to let her come. He seals his mouth over her, sucking, and Lucy shatters like a dying star.

Normally she might begrudge him the smug look on his face, but right now, she wants him in no doubt over how wild he makes her, over how much she desires him, over how much she loves him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve thought about that,” he admits, sounding almost shy as he brushes her hair back from her face.

“Enlighten me,” she replies.

Flynn clears his throat, glances away, then down, then mumbles something she can’t quite make out.

“I’ll tell you mine,” she offers.

Flynn glances up at her, renewed mischief in his eyes. “Oh? Tell me, when did good girl Miss Lucy Preston start thinking about the big bad time bandit?”

“D.C., Watergate,” Lucy replies honestly. His suit was… it was. Damn. Pastel colors suit him, he should wear them more often, and she distinctly remembers being tied to the chair and looking up at him and feeling this hot surge of angry want, like a fire in her stomach. She’d wanted nothing more than to get her heel on his shoulder and get him on his knees and make him apologize in the most carnal way possible.

The next instant she’d been absolutely horrified at herself and had denied it to herself for a week before giving in and having the aforementioned showers.

Flynn’s mouth drops open a little, but he recovers quickly. “From the beginning,” he tells her.

Whether that means when he met her future self in São Paulo or when they met in front of the burning wreck of the Hindenburg, she’s not sure. Flynn is careful not to tell her too much about her future meeting with him, out of respect for the privacy of whatever happened there, and Lucy trusts now that whatever did, does, will, happen between them in that bar, she’ll understand when the time comes.

From the beginning. She’s not sure when he started loving her, or realizing he loved her, but even just for simple lust, that’s quite a long time to wait.

She won’t make him wait any longer.

“Come here,” she whispers, beckoning him up to her.

He goes, crawling up and letting her kiss him, lets her swipe the taste of herself from his lips and tongue, and helps her to finish undressing. She runs her hands all over him and her mouth over quite a lot, biting softly at his broad shoulders, her tongue tracing a nipple, sucking a small bruise into the juncture of his neck.

Despite the single-minded teasing he gave her when he went down on her, Flynn’s careful with her as he slides his fingers in, double and triple checking that she really is ready for him. In the end, she has to climb on top of him and get it taken care of herself.

Flynn just about goes cross-eyed and it is one of the most satisfying moments of her entire life.

She politely gives him a moment or two to adjust to being inside her, even as she feels she’ll absolutely combust with how much she wants to thrust up and down on him immediately (he’s more than adequate in the size department, thankyouverymuch, although she’ll be the first to admit she’s a bit… greedy when it comes to that aspect of her male lovers).

When Flynn rolls his hips tentatively up into her, she doesn’t hold back any longer.

Once, she’d had a bad night after her mother had died and she’d ended up passing out in his bed after too much vodka, and Flynn had teased her the next morning by saying what a ‘gentle and responsive’ lover she was.

No one’s ever accused her of being gentle, but responsive?

Oh, yes, very.

Flynn is more than attentive, his dark eyes watching her face hungrily, adjusting his angle until she lets out a satisfying cry. Then he hits at that angle, again and again, looking starved for each sound she gives him in response. Her nails rake down his chest and across his shoulders and she bites at his lips when they kiss again. She is a ferocious lover but she doesn’t care, not when it feels so damn good, not when, for once, she doesn’t feel like she’s too much. It feels like for the first time she is with someone who loves to give all that she wants to take, someone who meets her when she challenges him. Someone who is her equal in intensity.

She’s so close, terribly close, and she feels that Flynn is as well, when he flips her over and suddenly it’s different. He’s above her, cocooning her almost, and her hands dig into his back and his thrusts are deep but slow, he’s in her as deep as he could possibly be, he’s in her soul, and he’s kissing her like he’s pouring his life into her and it’s no less intense but somehow softer at the same time and she sobs as she comes, feeling like they’re not two people but a greater part of something else, like two parts of a star that found their way to each other again, like something in her cried out and something in him answered.

She feels  _alive_.

There are the more mundane aspects of sex to deal with, such as clean up, but it all passes in a pleasant haze and then she’s back in his arms again. Flynn holds her with a tenderness she never would have expected from him, a tenderness she couldn’t ever bear to give up.

She doesn’t know how to tell him all of this. She supposes, then, that she’s lucky that he reads it in her anyway, just as she reads everything she feels reflected back from him. She sees it in his eyes, feels it in his kiss and how his hands gently cradle her, hears it in the wild thump of his heart beneath her ear.

 _I will never be parted from you_ , she thinks.

She says, “I love you.”

“ _Volim te_ ,” Flynn replies out loud.  _Nothing could take me from you_ , she hears, the unspoken answer to her silent statement.

She holds onto him and feels happy, and loved, and blissful, and  _safe_. She holds onto him, and he holds her, and she sleeps.


End file.
